Adventure Magazine Cover — page 143: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Strangler It was that deadest of all dead and lifeless periods, two o’clock in the morning. Some- where near at hand a rooster flopped his wings and crowed raucously. “Td like to have a hind leg of you fried,” the strangler grumbled, as he finished unla- cing the second of his shoes and pulled it off with a jerk. ‘I could pretty near get it down raw, with the feathers on. That’s the old buck’s house, all right. Ill goin by that half window—the pantry, or maybe a bath- room.” He straightened up and walked across the dewy turf, pausing below the open window just long enough to look back and to listen for any sound from within or without. The world was as still as it could have been before the first sunrise, however, and with an easy movement Blondie reached up, hooked his hands over the sill and lifted himself till he was staring into the darkness of the room beyond. Cautiously he slid through and felt the cool touch of polished wood beneath his bare feet. In his earlier years, before he became a garroter, Blondie had done work of this kind; the memory of old times came to him now, and he worked with the poise and mas- tery of a thorough tradesman. He found the door and let himself into a corridor, then felt his way forward, touching doors on each side and stopping at the end of the passage to consider. He had kept his turnings and advances straight in mind and knew exactly where he was in relation to the outer lines of the building. Also, he knew where he was according to a sketch which his em- ployer had drawn for him. He listened attentively again, then grasped the knob of the door before him, drew it firmly toward him and turned it quickly to avoid any chance squeaks or quavers. With the same swift motion he shoved the door open and was standing inside the room at the end of the passage. Strageling blue rays from a distant arc light were reflected from rows of bottles and scattered articles of glass and metal on benches about the wall, and by this uncer- tain light Blondie made out that he had entered a large room fitted up as a labora- tory. From it there opened, at the side farthest from the strangler, a smaller room. Toward this he headed. ‘This is going to be chicken-pie for me,”’ he mumbled. “Ten thousand plunks—say, Ill buy a buzz-wagon ’n’ [ll ride around 707 below the Line ’n show ’em how to hit her Ups bie Cheered, almost intoxicated, by thoughts of his own coming grandeur, Blondie was nevertheless alert enough to hear a stealthy sound near him; he whirled, jerking up one arm automatically to fend off a possible blow aimed at his head or face. At the same instant he became conscious of some- thing tightening about his chest, binding one arm firmly to his side and biting and burning into his flesh till he cried out in agony. He realized that a noose had settled over him, and that he was being lifted from the floor. Next moment the room was filled with blinding blue light and, as the strangler spun slowly about, like some great bird trussed before a fire, he saw a tall old man dancing about, in imminent danger of falling from a gallery near the ceiling. “So ho, my bird—my fish—my dainty gazelle! I have you fast and safe at the first shot! Don’t pluck at the rope, my beauty, for it’s made of steel fibers, carefully tem- pered. I'll let you down after I’ve looked you over.” Blondie caught fleeting glimpses of him stalking along the gallery and down the narrow stairs at the end. Then the old man was standing beside him. He was a tall, lean, white-haired old man, garbed in some nondescript night-garment in two pieces and bound about the waist with a doubled strand of cord. The stran- gler took in these details one at a time as he slowed to a standstill and hung, swaying. His captor was looking him over, with his head tipped back and his thin, high-bridged nose apparently ready to peck at Blondie, like an eagle’s beak. ‘What did you come here for?” the old man demanded suddenly. Blondie stared at him with a sort of fas- cination that bound his tongue and held him almost hypnotized. The feeling had come over him that the old man was a dream; that this whole night of vicissitudes and misadventures was a series of very evil nightmares, caused by dope in his drink or too much free lunch. A glint of anger kindled in the old man’s eyes and he whirled about and strode away. ‘He refuses to talk,” the strangler heard him muttering. ‘“‘Well, I have a cure for that—he shall experience the exquisite torture. ”’ COMICOOCKKS. ECO